Final Moments 2: Blooming
by SunstreakersGlitch
Summary: Sometime's it's not what you expect. Flower's are the perfect way to say what your thinking. Sometime's the message never becomes clear. Kyle's Final Moment's oneshot.


**Disclaimer: **Could never think up some of that crazy shit, unless i was high and possibly off my med's.

**Warning:** Car related Death (Some people are bothered by this sorry for mild spoiler) Depressing themes.

**My note: **White Lily's Last Bloom is the poem that inspired this. My Kyle's Final Moments fic. Please tell me if i should get better at this, cause this is one of my favorites, Kyle is deep and i'm not sure if my oneshot conveys this.

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><p><strong><em>"Where doe's thy blossom lay?"<em>**

_It lies within a deep dark slumber,_

_Forever is naught but for now,_

_Look for me where the white lily's lay_

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><p>White Lily's are the most significant flower in meaning. They are the flower that announces death.<p>

Their silky soft petals the color of the moon, yellow pistol softening the stark blankness. The green stem curving elegantly knot the base of the flower.

The simple plant that can hold so much meaning. I'm sorry for your loss. You will be missed. I can't believe your gone. Someone you know died recently.

Lily's are placed on the caskets, the harsh metal, the traditional wooden ones. They are placed on the cold chests, with no beating heart, folded in hands that will never remove them. They are tossed into the earthly pit, landing on the box containing what was a person, covered in soil and buried like the soul they celebrate the end of. They are lain reverently atop the fresh turned graves. Placed religiously on the stone plac's.

Lily's are a gift to the fallen.

I find myself watching the people who come to buy them. Men, women, children to young to understand their significance. I watch their faces. Some are grief stricken, barely able to see straight through the tears. Some are resigned, buying the flowers for a husband long dead, a parent who was terminal. Some are indifferent. The dead are gone, but they pay homage to been seen by the living anyway.

But the person I remember most when I think of the White Lily is a young woman.

She came into the shop with a faint smile on her face. She was a bit younger than me, probably seventeen. I didn't recognize her, she must have been from North Park. Her hair was the same shade of red as my own, though her eyes were a warm brown and she bore the traditional freckles on her pale skin.

She wandered the shop for a bit, looking at the roses and brushing by the carnations softly. When she arrived in front of the Lily's display her face lit up. Eyes shining and smile widening to show teeth she grabbed one single flower, one white bloom among the herds.

As I rang it up, wrapping it clinically in green plastic and tying it with the specified white ribbon I had to speak. All my life I had been a busy body. My friends knew it, my family knew it, and the customers came to know it as well.

Sometimes my curiosity seemed to stem from the empty openness I felt myself. Like if I solved this one mystery, found this one thing out, I could apply it to my own life as well. Trying to shove other peoples business and lives into my own soul, to fill in a perpetually missing piece.

"This is the traditional death flower, you know." I spoke casually, not looking from the counter where my fingers, stained green already, were tucking the green plastic edges in.

Her tinkling laugh made me tense up, but she spoke in a tone that held no mocking.

"The flower of death. Yes I know, very well. I buy one every Monday. My brother, last year, he killed himself." My hands stilled on the creamy ribbon I was sculpting into a bow, why did my curiosity rule me?

"So I bring him a gift, in celebration of his death. The end of his suffering"

I found myself staring into guileless brown eyes, my own jade one's wide in disbelief. Her smile was faint, but there. She seemed amused at my shock but went on speaking, even though I had frozen in my work.

"He was never meant for earth you see. Ethan was a special boy, sometimes to special. No one could really understand.

I tried to sometimes; sometimes I would think I almost had a gasp on what he was trying to tell me. About the empty spot inside, about the dull echo that life seemed, like the shine was missing.

He compared his existence to a broken telescope one time. Said that he could sometimes get a glimpse of what he was supposed to see and feel, but most of the time it felt like he was straining to find meaning.

He couldn't take in the end. So I celebrate, with these flowers. I am thankful he didn't have to go on living in this world, when obviously he was meant for so much more."

She took her flower and paid. Leaving me with my thoughts spinning. I never saw her again, but I often thought of her words.

Maybe I was meant for more than this. Working part-time at a florist shop in a tiny town, going to community college and living with my parents still. The emptiness she described felt so real to me. I sometimes wondered if I dreamt about her, made her the poster child of my delusions. Hoping that just one person understood that death wasn't the be all end all they made it out to be.

Everyone I knew, even my friend Kenny, who died on a regular basis and had visited the bowels of hell and seen the mountains of heaven didn't want to be dead. He lived and laughed and existed on earth as much as possible.

The faith I had grown up with, my family's beliefs in religion and god, held no water with me. I couldn't force myself to accept that there was one being who I could never hope to be better than. I'm not saying I was trying to be a god or anything, but simply giving in and saying that there was a divine entity that gave you the rules and boundary's and you could never exceed his limitations bother something deep inside me.

The rules of the Jewish faith were out of my reach, I couldn't understand them.

Maybe I never tried.

But in the end it lead to the same thing. I lost faith, never had faith to lose, and my life was finally clear to be mine. Except I had no aim and no goals.

After I hit high school my grades bottomed out. I tried parting with my friends, get so drunk I couldn't think. I tried pot, buzzing myself to a higher plane where nothing matter but more. I tried to date, boy's weren't interesting, girls were worse.

The only good thing in my life, the only constant that was no hardship, was the flower shop.

Working here, was easy. I could look at a flower and see beyond the plant. I could satiate my curiosity for a time here, see what others were doing and live their lives from my voyeuristic point of view.

I even thought about suicide once. But my better sense got the upper hand there. My existence was all I had. So I drugged and kept on living. Pushing forward with no goal, never looking back either.

Until I found myself here.

The car I drove was pretty dingy and old, a Honda civic in black. Paint scraped off the passenger side door, smelling like old sweat and cigarettes on the inside. It was steady though, ran well enough to get me to work and college.

In my passenger side a bouquet of White Lily's lay, no plastic wrap or ribbons. I'd even left the leaves uncut. They were natural flowers to place on Stan's dad's grave. It was memorial day so the traffic was bad, especially at the four-way intersection just outside the grave yard.

From the red stoplight outside the gate, getting ready to make the turn, I could just see Stan, Kenny and even Cartman. The three of them looking down at the head stone for Randy Marsh, just beside Jimbo's grave. Kenny had a hand low on Stan's back trying to give comfort, while Cartman stood to the side, seemingly unaffected.

I stared to long though, a blaring of a horn and I jerked the car forward, not glancing at the light but assuming it had switched.

To late I turned my head from my three childhood friends, the people I clung to even if it wasn't enough anymore.

To late I saw the metallic yellow of a vehicle.

To late I recognized the car as a truck, big enough to crush my dinky car like a bug.

To late.

The impact flattened the passenger side of my car, causing the air bags to explode in a shower of white powder. My hands flew off the wheel and I felt the car spin hopelessly. I'd been close enough to the graveyard fence for the driver side to smack into it, the chain link halting my car.

With shattered glass and metal twisting everywhere I could barely register the smell of gasoline, the stink of fire. I knew without knowing that there was no way to help. I was smashed against my door, pinned down to the seat by my steering wheel.

No where to go and no way out.

The loose bouquet of Lily's caught my attention just as the screaming started. The Lily's were broken, the petals smashed and the stems bent, but they had landed on my lap. With the air bag slowly deflating and my eyes slowly becoming unfocused I blinked.

The broken white Lily's were soaking in red. My life blood flooding them with color. With my left hand, the most undamaged part of me, I reached for them; I didn't want to stain the pretty flowers.

My hand closed over the stem just as I saw a yellow flame erupt through the shattered windshield.

And some how I couldn't bring myself to care.

With the Lily in my hand and the heat effulging me I let go.

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><p><strong>StarGuide2011<strong>


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